


All's Fair

by eleveninches



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Porn With Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-29
Updated: 2010-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleveninches/pseuds/eleveninches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur can always find Eames, and Eames needs to know if Arthur wants him just as badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All's Fair

**Author's Note:**

> Written for cherrybina's Rimming Meme.

It starts with a postcard.

No, that's not true; it starts in the airport in Mombasa. This new billionaire Cobb has befriended -- Santo or Sako or whoever; Eames doesn't care about his name, only his money -- is flying Eames and Cobb to Paris for his grand plan of inception, and the both of them arrive much too early to board his private jet. Cobb probably because he's ready to get the ball rolling, so to speak, and Eames because... well, if he was being honest with himself, he's looking forward to seeing Arthur's scowling little face again. They haven't seen each other in three months, and absense makes the heart grow fonder, and all. Yusuf hasn't arrived yet, but Yusuf always shows up at the last minute, so Eames isn't terrible concerned.

While they're waiting, Eames digs out a bag of dates and tosses one in his mouth. He offers the bag to Cobb, who waves his hand, declining it. Eames hadn't noticed it before in the bar or at Yusuf's shop, but Cobb somehow seems a lot worse now than he did the last time they worked together. His eyes are bright but his gaze in inward, rimmed with dark circles, and he keeps twitching.

"Hey," Eames says, shoving the bag back in his pocket. "I've been meaning to ask, how'd you find me, anyway? I've been keeping a low profile since Colombo."

Cobb blinks at him. "Arthur told me," he says, as if it's obvious.

"Oh really?" Eames replies thoughtfully. "That's funny, seeing as how I didn't tell anyone where I was going. Not even Arthur."

Cobb shrugs. "Arthur always knows where you are. Finding you must be his super power."

Yusuf barely makes it, but he runs up the platform and into the plane just as Eames and Cobb have settled into their seats. He's breathing hard and his hair's wild. "Sorry, sorry," he says to no one in particular. "My neighbour's watching my cat and I'd forgotten to give her Nemo's medicine."

He sticks his bag into the overhead compartment and takes the empty seat across from Eames. The plane is spacious and comfortable, so there's a decent distance and a sturdy table between them; thank God for the rich, Eames thinks. Cobb is across the aisle from them, but he does't even turn to greet Yusuf.

"You're sure this is such a good idea?" Yusuf asks, pointedly glancing at Cobb.

"No," admits Eames, "but for how much Seto's--"

"Saito."

"--paying us, I'd try inception on the sodding queen."

Yusuf nods at Cobb, who's still oblivious to their conversation. He's staring out the window with his face all scrunched up like a Pekingese. "But he has crazy eyes," Yusuf hisses. "How are we supposed to be survive this when our extractor's mentally unbalanced?"

"That's a bit harsh," Eames says. "If you're so dead set against it, why are you here?"

"Student loans," Yusuf grumbles. "Those bastards find you no matter where in the world you're hiding."

"Don't worry, I've worked with Crazy E-- I mean, Cobb, before." Eames slips on his sunglasses and pops in his earbuds. "Just think of all the lovely illicit things you can buy with your money after we've been paid."

"Not helping," Yusuf says, loud enough for Eames to hear it through his music.

Later, when they land, Cobb's woken up from sleep and he jumps like he'd been shot. He pulls a gun out of his waistband. Yusuf lets out a loud exclamation and Eames freezes because in real life when you shoot someone, they die.

"Sorry," Cobb says to them and to the terrified flight attendant, but he doesn't sound like he means it. He tucks the gun back into his trousers and flops back down.

"Jesus Christ!" Yusuf swears.

The money might not quite be worth this. Eames hopes desparately that seeing Arthur again still is.

*

It turns out Arthur is happy to see him. Well, perhaps _happy_ isn't the correct word, but when Eames follows Cobb into the old printing workshop he's acquired Arthur does that thing where tilts his chin up and says Eames's name too casually -- almost, dare Eames thinks it, _carefully_ \-- and Eames knows that, for Arthur, that's practically a hug. He's still as gorgeous as he was three months ago in Colombo, even if his hair is all straight and flat in the dry Parisian air, and he's wearing a brown jumper and tight trousers and he looks good enough to eat (out), but Eames settles for a nod and a, "Good to see you again, Arthur."

*

A month after they perform the impossible and either ruin or fix Robert Fischer's life (Eames never bothers to keep up with the news, and so he has no idea whether or not the inception took, and he has no interest, to be honest), Eames is in Vienna. He likes Vienna in the late spring, because it's rainy and the city's made of cool grey stone and the whole thing reminds him of London, except it smells like sausages. He's staying at a posh hotel off the Stephensplatz that's full of stupid American tourists who don't notice when he relieves them of their wallets.

Normally, he wouldn't be caught in a city as expensive as Vienna, but he has plenty of money to burn now since Saito paid him. He'll head back to Africa, or maybe south east Asia, again once he's blown a few thousand euros. Besides, no one makes coffee like the baristas in Vienna, and he has all the time in the world to sit at coffee houses and watch people.

One evening, he's heading back to his room after one too many German lagers, and the receptionist stops him. "Mr Owens, something arrived for you in the post."

The something turns out to be a postcard. On the front, it's a picture of Michigan Avenue and has _CHICAGO_ in bright red letters. Eames blinks in confusion and turns it over. In very neat handwriting, the back says, _It was too easy to find you, Mr Eames. Are you getting sloppy? -A_

Beside it is in address for an apartment in Chicago. Eames stares at it.

"Alright then," he says to himself.

The next day, Eames hunts through souvenir shops in the squares near the Stephensdom until he finds a postcard of a wuerstelstand. _VIENNANESE SAUSAGES!_ the postcard says, and Eames nearly laughs himself sick. Then he takes a dozen pictures of himself in one of those photo booths reserved for teenage girls, and, in lieu of a message, he pastes the most ridiculous one -- him sticking his tongue out at the camera, eyes crossed -- to the back of the card. He posts it to the Chicago address that afternoon.

*

He ends up getting chased out of Vienna with an accusation of cheating (how dare they! he never cheats at black jack, only poker), and ends up a few countries over in Belarus. Predicatably, Minsk is freezing this time of year, even though it's nearly summer in the rest of the northern hemisphere. Eames doesn't have a proper jacket, having lost it in Vienna, and it's almost enough to make him go back to London. Almost. He does start keeping an eye out for cheap flights to Mombasa or Bangkok, though.

He doesn't speak Russian or Byelorussian, but the food is cheap and the beer is cheaper, and he goes through kefir like water.

Eames is in Minsk for three days before the next postcard shows up. It's from New York and as a picture of the Statue of Liberty. How uncreative. On the back, however, is a photo of Arthur. He has his chin in one hand and it looks like he was aiming for an over-exaggerated thoughtful expression, one eyebrow raised sky high, but it's obvious he's on the verge of laughter. Eames can make out a dimple in one cheek. It's the only picture Eames has ever seen of Arthur. Even in the bad lighting of the photo booth, he's still the best thing Eames has ever seen.

He's very proud of himself that he lasts an entire day before he jerks off to that photo. He stares at it -- thinking about how he wants to pull down that starched white collar and bite Arthur's neck, to rub his stubble against Arthur's jawline until it turns pink, to peel off Arthur's pristine oxford and obscene skinny jeans (which are not in the picture, but he knows how Arthur dresses even in his down time) and stick his fingers, his tongue, and his cock in Arthur and have Arthur make all kinds of helpless noises -- until it blurs beneath his vision. And even though his own hand's much too large to be Arthur's, he's always had a vivid imagination, and he comes like a firecracker.

*

The next picture Eames sends is of his lower face and chest. He whips his shirt off in the photo booth, even though it's freezing, and Arthur had better appreciate this, thank you, and gets several good photos of his tats and muscles. The picture he selects has both of those in addition to his lips and his jaw. There's no question about it: he looks good. Not svelte and lanky and edible and perfectly put together like Arthur, of course, few can measure up to Arthur in the looks department. In Eames' opinion, anyway.

To be frank, he's not entirely sure what he's doing or if sending this is a good idea. If Eames had any sense of shame left, he'd be embarrassed right about now. But he's been feeling like some kind of Victorian pervert the way he's been beating off to that picture of a fully-clothed Arthur, and if he can get Arthur to even unbutton his shirt a little, he'll consider it a victory. Arthur's already sent him a picture of him without a tie on, which means the next logical step is for him to get starkers.

He sends the picture with a postcard of the Nezavisimosti Square, and he drops it off at the post office on his way to the catch his flight to Athens.

*

The next picture Arthur sends is similar to the last one, but Arthur's wearing a t-shirt (red! with _words_ on it!) and his fringe isn't gelled back; it gently curls over his forehead, and Eames swears there are more curls in his hair. His face is very serious and very young. Eames wanks to that one so hard he thinks he may have sprained his dick. This time Arthur's in Mexico City, but it takes Eames days to notice the address, printed carefully on the back of the card, or the picture of the Zócalo.

Eames wonders if this photo means Arthur jerked off to the picture Eames had sent of himself. He thinks about Arthur laying in a hotel bed fisting his cock in one hand and holding the photo in the other, about Arthur biting his lip, if he got naked or if he just touched himself through his spectactularly tight trousers. He wonders if Arthur likes to have sex with his clothes on or if he'll let Eames unwrap him when -- and Eames knows by now it's a _when_ , not an if -- they have sex. Eames will take off the trousers last, he thinks, because he likes looking at Arthur's cotton-clab bum the best.

Eames very much wants to send back a photo of his cock, but the Greek postal service may frown upon that one. It's a good thing he doesn't have Arthur's phone number, or else he might do something he may later regret.

Instead, impulsively, he empties one of those tiny bottles of gin in his hotel's mini-bar and peels off the label. He fills it with sand from the Cretan beach and posts it stuck to a postcard with cellotape. He also sends Yusuf a postcard of the beach, but this one says _i bet ur so jealous_ , and he knows Yusuf will send him a dozen angry emails about being left behind in Mombasa with Nemo the cat while Eames does a tour of Europe.

Next, Eames heads to Portugal and hits up the Casino Lisboa. He's not surprised when, merely a few days later, he receives a package from Argentina.

He can imagine Arthur wracking his brain trying to be creative about this, but the poor thing doesn't have an ounce of imagination in him. In Eames's hands is a jar of dulce de leche; he'd eaten about three jars of it the last time he had been in Buenos Aries, but he hadn't thought Arthur had noticed.

Eames's gift back is another empty bottle of gin, this time with a small purple flower he picks from the Jardim Botanico. It'll be dead by the time it reaches Argentina, but, well, it's the thought that counts, isn't it. He cellotapes it to a postcard of the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos and sends it on its way.

But when Arthur sends the next postcard to him (from his new location in San José, to Eames's in Palermo), Eames takes one look at and books the next flight there.

*

Eames knows Cobb, has worked with him in what has to be at least thirty different jobs (but is probably more like ten, but maths was never Eames's strong suit), so it's easy to find the old book depository they're working from. Cobb may be crazy and unpredictable in some ways, but he's shockingly easy to figure out in others. He likes his jobs done a certain way, with a certain amount of flair. It's why he and Arthur work together so well.

It's also surprisingly easy for Eames to break the lock and slip in unawares. Inside, the warehouse is hot and stuffy with the Costa Rican heat, and he can hear voices coming from the back. The light in the reception isn't on, but there's enough coming from the back room (rooms?) that it doesn't matter.

That is, until he hears Arthur's voice, clear as a bell: "Did anyone hear something?"

Suddenly, the lights are on and two guns are being aimed directly at him; it's Arthur, stunning as always, and some other bloke who definitely isn't Cobb. Eames raises his arms. "Don't shoot, it's me," he calls. Then, a little jealously, he asks, "Who's this?"

"Eames?" Arthur asks. He lowers his gun, looking stunned. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"You know this guy?" the other man asks in heavily-accented English.

"Eames?" Cobb asks, appearing from behind Arthur.

Cobb looks different from the last time Eames had seen him. He's put on some weight in the middle and in the face, but his eyes are calm; he'd seen Cobb walk out LAX with Miles looking like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, but it's odd, now, seeing Cobb peaceful after eighteen months of him being off his rocker. Well, he's not exactly peaceful now -- in fact, he looks angry and bewildered to see Eames -- but he looks better than Eames had expected. Ariadne is there too, which Eames finds strange; he vaguely recalled her, on the plane into LAX, telling Cobb he needed professional help and to never call her again. But money made people behave in unsual ways, he supposed.

"Explain yourself," Cobb snaps.

There's no way to make this sound dignified. "I came to see Arthur," Eames says truthfully.

The room goes still. Eames watches half a dozen emotions cross Arthur's face (and an entirely different set of emotions cross Cobb's, from horror to confusion, and these are considerably less flattering). "You--? Why?"

"You sent me _this_ ," Eames exclaims. He pulls the latest postcard from his back pocket and holds it up. "What else was I to do?"

"Oh my God, did you really send him a picture of you with your fingers in your mouth?" Ariadne demands from somewhere behind everyone. "That's so gross! Arthur, you slut!"

"Shut up, Ariadne," Arthus says loudly, glaring in her general direction. "It's not-- it's a _tasteful_ picture. I was going for coy, it's not like I'm--"

"Please stop talking," says Cobb, looking pained. "And for the love of God, Eames, please put that away before I go blind."

Almost unconsciously, Eames finds himself moving forward. He takes Arthur's hand in both of his, causing Arthur to take a step toward him. "I couldn't think of what else to send you, so I'm upping the stakes. I've come to ravish you. You know, properly."

Arthur looks dazed. "What? What makes you think I want you to ravish me?"

Ariadne snorts audibly.

"Call it a hunch. I was hoping to surprise you." He pauses as Arthur's eyes widen. "You're terribly surprised, aren't you, darling?"

"I'm very surprised," Arthur admits. He licks his lips and Eames is mesmorised.

"Wow," says Ariadne. "Who knew creepy was Arthur's thing?"

Arthur ignores Ariadne. Gently, he says, "You still shouldn't have come. If I hadn't been here, Fernando would have shot you."

Eames glances at Fernando, whose expression says, plain as day, _I still might shoot you._

"Also," Arthur adds, eyes narrowing, "I really wish you hadn't just shown that picture to everyone."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that," Eames replies.

"Me too," Cobb says.

"Me three," says Ariadne.

"Enough comments from the peanut gallery," Arthur growls.

*

"I'm taking a half-day," Arthur announces, and he drags Eames out of the depository by his shirtfront.

Eames knows Arthur is meant to be angry at him, but that still doesn't stop him from practically attacking Eames with his mouth as soon as they get in Eames's hired car. But Eames is nothing if not opportunistic, and he grabs Arthur's head in his hands, moaning when Arthur's tongue touches his. Arthur's hands are fisted in his shirt and he's sucking on Eames's tongue like he's dying; Eames slides his palm down Arthur's spine to settle on the small of his back, and Arthur lets out a small gasp and is suddenly boneless, letting go and curling his fingers around Eames's cheeks. A sound of surprise leaves Eames's throat and he nips at Arthur's lower lip, and then moves down to Arthur's throat, sucking.

Already this is better than he'd expected; Arthur's body is solid tightly-coiled muscle underneath his hands, and they're pressed chest-to-chest (made more difficult, although not impossible, by the gear shift) so that he can feel Arthur panting for air, and he could just get off from this, from Arthur letting Eames touch him like this. He bites and sucks on the spot behind Arthur's ear, and Arthur raises himself slightly as Eames slips his hands into the back of Arthur's trousers, palming his arse. Arthur makes a startled sound and then grabs Eames's upper arms.

"Eames," he moans, and then more forcefully: "Eames."

Arthur's fringe has started to come free from its pomaded cage and is flopping againgst his forehead. His face and neck are quickly turning pink from stubble burn. Eames swallows at just how perfectly undone Arthur looks right now. "Darling," he says thickly, his hands still cupped around Arthur's magnificant bum, "if you tell me we can't do this, I think I may die."

"We can't do this," Arthur says. Eames's blood runs cold. "Here," Arthur adds with a cruel smile.

"Dear God," is all Eames can say.

Arthur somehow gets the keys from him -- and Eames is pretty sure they were in his jeans pocket, which is hot, so hot -- and drives them to some sub-standard hotel in the city centre. He has a difficult time believing Arthur sleeps on anything but Egyptian cotton sheets, but if this where Arthur wishes to be ravished, heaven forbid Eames should object.

But in truth, the inside of the hotel is perfectly nice, although Eames is concentrating mostly on not throwing Arthur against the wall of the elevator and rubbing all over him. No, he waits until they get in the room for that, and Arthur yelps for a brief second before Eames kisses him again. He paws at Arthur's tie, trying to get it off, until Arthur slaps his hands away and does it himself.

"Wait," Eames says, as Arthur ( _Arthur!_ ) actually drops the tie to the floor, "I want to undress you."

"Later," Arthur replies, and he sounds out of breath and his eyes are a little crazy, so Eames decides next time will be the time he peels off Arthur's layers one by one and kisses him everywhere. Right now he's sure that might break Arthur if he does it (or that Arthur will break _him_ , probably in the face or bollocks).

Eames wrenches off his shirt and drops his trousers and pants in one go, while Arthur carefully unbuttons his waistcoat and pressed shirt. Normally, Eames loves the way Arthur is so precise and careful and -- although he'd never use this word out loud in fear of his own safety -- prissy, but now is the time for nudity. He unbuckles Arthur's belt and lowers the zip of his trousers, which are still hugging his arse perfectly, and then he notices Arthur staring at his body.

"See something you like?" he asks.

Arthur touches his chest and his stomach and then runs his hands up and down Eames's arms, fingers spread wide, making Eames shiver. Eames takes the opportunity to help Arthur remove his trousers, dropping sucking kisses on his neck and jaw, but then Arthur says, "Wait," and pulls back.

Eames sighs through his nose. "Yes?"

With an intent look on his face, Arthur starts rummaging through his suitcase. A moment later, he takes out some a condom and a small bottle of lube, tossing them onto the bed. He looks pleased. "Wasn't sure I had any."

"Really?" Eames asks.

Arthur scowls at him. "It's not like I secretly have men in every country."

"All the better for me, then," Eames says, and then tackles him to the bed. Together, they pull off Arthur's remaining clothes and Eames's socks while Arthur bites at his shoulder and Eames palms Arthur's arse gently.

"Mmmm, Eames," Arthur says, almost a sigh.

Eames grabs his chin and kisses him hard. Then he rolls Arthur onto his belly and covers him with his own body. "Why did you send me that first postcard?" he asks, suddenly needing to know more than anything.

Arthur bucks and tries to fight him, but Eames has the weight advantage and he just lies there, holding Arthur's wrists to the bed, until Arthur goes still. He can feel Arthur tight with rage, but he'd rather feel him tight in a completely different way, thank you very much. "Why did you send me that first postcard?" he repeats, stroking his thumbs across the back of Arthur's wrists.

"I don't know," Arthur replies into the bed, clearly lying.

He pushes Arthur's wrists down more tightly and arches his back, slowly dragging his cock along the cleft of Arthur's arse. It feels amazing and he's going to have to try that later, try coming between Arthur's thighs while Arthur lies there with his knees locked. But right now, Arthur makes a frustrated sound and says, "I swear to God, if you don't fuck me right now--"

Eames drops his wrists and moves back. With one hand, he spreads Arthur's legs, and then with both pulls Arthur's arse open and drags his cheek across, hearing the scrape of his own stubble. Arthur makes a squeaky noise and says, "W-what are you doing?" Instead of answering, Eames dips his head and starts licking circles around his hole without touching it, using both hands now to spread Arthur's cheeks wider. When he slides his tongue inside, Arthur's knees wobble, but he catches himself on both hands.

It takes all of Eames's willpower not to just shove his cock in Arthur; he's so hard that all the blood is rushing from his head to his cock. He manages to raise his head, asks, "Why'd you send me that first postcard?" and dives back in, licking long strokes across Arthur's hole until its wet and shiny.

"Because--" Arthur's speaking like it's clawing its way up his throat. "Because--"

Eames sucks on his pointer finger and then slides it, nice and wet, into Arthur's slick hole. Inside, Arthur is tight and burning hot, his heartbeat flutters against Eames's finger. Dropping his head, Eames sloppily licks around his finger, and he slides his other arm around Arthur's thighs, holding him still. There are small noises coming from Arthur now as his thighs begin to shake, and the sound goes straight to Eames's cock. Eames carefully slides in a second finger as Arthur continues, "Because I wanted to see what you'd do."

Eames pulls his face back, pumping his fingers slowly, and Arthur gasps. "Did you think I'd do this?" he asks.

Arthur's squirming. "No, but I-- oh God, oh-- I'd hoped."

By now, Eames can't control his own heavy breathing, watching Arthur so messy and perfect, and he grunts, "Tell me." He pumps his fingers faster and a little harder, pulling Arthur's bum higher in the air. Reaching for his own cock, Arthur starts pumping in rhythm to Eames's. Eames's brain stutters to a stop at the sight and he almost misses the words stumbling out of Arthur's mouth.

"I wanted-- when you sent that picture from Minsk, that _stupid_ picture, I-- It was ridiculous, but your chest, and your _tattoos_ \--" Arthur's face is pressed into the pillow. His voice comes out muffled. "I jerked off so much to it I had to tell Cobb I pulled my groin running."

"Yeah?" Eames asks. "I wanked off to the one of you in your white collared shirt so much the photo got wet and tore. I was bereft until you sent me the next one, but I'm afraid I dirtied that one up, too."

Arthur laughs, a careless, joyful sound. Eames needs to get in him _right now_ or he may actually explode. He curls his fingers inside Arthur and lowers his head to lick at the small of his back, dragging his tongue up, up Arthur's spine.

With a shout, Arthur comes, his body one long, tight bow. Then he collapses onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow.

"Arthur," Eames says, while Arthur lies there. He watches Arthur's back rise and fall with breaths, but Eames is just so goddamn hard right now. "Darling? Love? Light of my life?"

Arthur doesn't look up. "Muh?" he says.

"Is it okay?" Eames asks, kissing the back of his neck, his shoulder blades, his back. He runs his hands up and down the outside of Arthur's thighs and kisses his neck again. He's so turned on he can't even make full sentences. "Can I? Is it, are you--?"

"Yeah, come on," Arthur says. He flops over onto his back. His face is soft and his body is inviting and languid, and Eames quickly grabs a condom and lube from where Arthur had tossed them on the other side of the bed.

A heartbeat later, he presses himself into Arthur. He tries to go slow, but Arthur is so wet and open that he just slides right in.

"Jesus," Eames says, trying not to come. "Jesus bloody Christ."

Sighing, Arthur curls one leg around Eames's waist, and Eames brings the other to rest on his shoulder, kissing Arthur's ankle. When he's no longer ready to explode, Eames starts to move, pulling his cock nearly all the way out before shoving it back in again. Arthur screws his eyes shut and his mouth drops open, and Eames can't help but fold Arthur nearly in two and bend down to kiss the breath out of him.

As soon as he pulls back, Arthur's eyes are open again. "So why did _you_ send that picture to _me_?"

Forming words is torture. "Because," Eames says, in time with his thrusts, "I needed to know if you want me as badly as I want you."

It's true, and Arthur seems to realize that; with a satisfied expression on his face, not unlike the cat that ate the canary, he grabs Eames's sides and pulls him closer, somehow spreading his legs impossibly wider. Eames slips in just a few centimetres deeper, his breath stuttering. "How are you--?" No human should be this flexible, and Eames thanks whichever two gorgeous and bendy dark-haired people came together to create such a man.

"God, you feel so good, I couldn't believe when you sent me that photo, you don't know how long I've wanted to do this to you, maybe since the first time I met you." He's babbling, but he doesn't care. With one hand, he pushes the fringe out of Arthur's eyes, and Arthur's eyes slip shut again. "Every time I see you in those arse-hugging trousers or that waistcoat I want to push you down and spread you open, Cobb be damned, God, you're brilliant, you're perfect, you're--" His hips snap as he begins to come. "You're--"

He comes in a bright white light, and he falls forward and face-plants himself on something warm.

Something pokes him in the chest. "Eames, I can't breathe," Arthur says, sounding strained. "Seriously, I can't breathe."

Eames pulls out of him and rolls over. He rips the condom off, ties it, and tosses it in what he hopes is the general direction of the bin. His eyes are still closed when Arthur starts mouthing the tattoo on his bicep, and he reaches out with both arms to pull Arthur tight against him. "We have time for that later," he says dreamily.

Beside him, Arthur stiffens and then, suddenly, relaxes. He drops his head to Eames's chest. "Yeah, okay."

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr [here](http://eleveninches.tumblr.com).


End file.
